Her Door
by CycloneT
Summary: Sometimes the destination is more important than the journey. [GorenEames]
1. The Journey

Title: Her Door  
  
Author: Tracy  
  
Rating: PG  
  
Category: Angst  
  
Summary: Sometimes, the destination is more important than the journey.  
  
Thanks: Big bunches of roses go to Traci for her help with the hurdles I couldn't quite jump over by myself, and to Kate, for being a sounding board when I needed one.  
  
~x~  
  
The Journey  
  
Saturday  
  
He walked along the darkened streets with his shoulders hunched, hands fisted in his pockets, trying his damndest to avoid the one destination that would make it better. It was raining, and he was wet and cold and shivering, and feeling hollow from yet another difficult visit to his mother. His hair was plastered to his head and the force of the rain stung his eyes, but he didn't care. In fact, he welcomed the discomfort the elements provided, because they offered a much needed distraction. While the wind tore through him he didn't have to think of where he'd been and what she'd said. While the rain pounded him he could ignore where, against all his better judgement, his feet were carrying him. Because even though he'd started by walking in the opposite direction, he'd somehow turned himself around so that he was slowly but steadily heading towards her. Not her, the sick woman he'd left that afternoon who'd thought he was trying to poison her coffee, but the other her in his life. The stable her. The her that was there when he needed a friend, whose presence was his one constant, and most importantly, who didn't think he was trying to kill her.   
  
He swallowed that thought bitterly; the rain wasn't doing its job, because his mind was still racing. He tried not to take her behaviour personally, but it was hard to distance himself from the disease while retaining a tentative closeness to the woman. Even as a child he'd struggled to find that balance, and now as a man he was no closer to the solution than that scared little boy had been. He trudged on, repeating the mantra he'd picked out for his own when he first learned to spell the word 'schizophrenia.' He hadn't known what it meant then, but he'd memorised the letters regardless.  
  
She's sick. She can't help it.  
  
He was seven when he'd memorised the term, 'chemical imbalance.' Nine when he'd arrived home from school to find the kitchen doused in petrol and a lighted match in his mothers fingers. Twelve, when – He swallowed that memory too. He didn't want to remember that one; not in the dark, and especially not while he was alone. But even with all the bad things she was still his mother, and no matter how hard he tried to quash it, a part of him still remembered the woman she was before the illness took control. Better for him maybe if he was more like his absent brother, choosing only to remember the things that she'd said or done that had caused maximum hurt and that could never be taken back or undone. Then maybe the guilt wouldn't be quite so heavy. But he couldn't lie to himself. He remembered some good times, and that made it all the harder to visit her each week and see where he kept her locked in and what she'd become.  
  
He turned a corner, aware that this was the way to her, but convincing himself that when he reached the next one he'd turn back. The memories quietened, as they always did when his thoughts turned to her, and he reached the next corner and kept walking. His purpose was clear now, his destination acknowledged. He always ended up there. He couldn't help himself; she was like some kind of beacon that drew him against his will, like the light draws a hapless moth. He struggled against it, but in the end the beacon was too powerful and he always succumbed. It didn't matter that every time he burdened her with his inability to cope alone he promised himself that it would be the last. Promises like that meant nothing, because he'd discovered that he had no self control where she was concerned. Instead, he'd turn up unannounced and uninvited, and watch as her eyes lost a little of their lustre and her lips tightened. It was a subtle change, but it was there. He wasn't quite sure what it meant, but he did know that dark eyes were never good. Dark eyes foretold trouble. Dark eyes delivered hurtful words and harsh punishments. And even though he knew her dark eyes were nothing like his mothers dark eyes, he was always, always careful.   
  
Still, she always admitted him. That too, had to mean something.   
  
Keeping this thought firmly in his mind, he finally ceased struggling and hailed a cab. To her door. 


	2. The Destination

The Destination  
  
She had known it was him as soon as she heard the knock. Had known too, that it was his want and need that had driven him to this place, yet again. Countess times before he had come to her with his spirit bruised and his guilt heavy, searching for answers to make sense of the whole sorry situation. She was never able to comfort him with a suitable answer, never able to completely chase away the shadow that clung to him after a bad visit. She knew him well enough to slap a bandaid dressing on his wounds and send him away all too soon, recuperating, but never recovered.   
  
Once, she'd tried to soothe away the hurt by the simple act of taking his hand. She'd reached out impulsively, just wanting to let him know that he wasn't alone and not knowing any other way to break through. He'd looked into her eyes and pulled away from her as if struck, a sudden expression of distrust crossing his face, and she'd learnt not to do that again. After that there were only inadequate words and a barrier of soft cushions between them. He had his side of the couch, she had hers and there were no bridges.   
  
But even after the harshness of that unintended and immediately regretted rejection, she knew that he wanted something more from her. Knew too, that after her last effort was spurned it would take something monumental for him to lay himself open and ask. And that she could never give that much of herself until he did.  
  
She opened the door and moved aside as he entered wordlessly, refusing to look at her just yet. He left a trail of puddles in his wake as he shuffled to his customary place on her couch and sat, bone weary and still. It was unnatural to see him so motionless when he was usually so animated. She didn't like it, but she followed him to the couch and they sat in silence. This was how it began. This weighted silence, sometimes long, sometimes mercifully short, but always essential, used to reign in his emotions. When a tenuous hold was achieved, then, and only then, would he look at her.  
  
She waited, and sure enough he eventually stopped staring at his hands and turned his focus to her. She knew him well enough to decipher the muted appeal in his eyes, well enough to know that her pity wasn't welcome. So she tried to hide it, but the truth was still there. And because she wasn't quick enough, he saw. One word. Barely audible, it was not a request yet not quite a command either.   
  
Don't.   
  
A protest died on her lips, because he would know she was lying. She couldn't help feeling as she did. Not for the reasons he thought though, but for reasons he probably wouldn't believe anyway. Because she cared about him. Because she hated seeing him like he was, knowing what she knew and what he had endured. Because he kept enduring, alone. Always alone. So she choked back her denial and instead countered with a question of her own. And for once, he was the one without answers.  
  
Why not? 


	3. The Return

The Return  
  
Friday  
  
He stood in the hallway before her door. Again, he'd come to this place. He'd sworn after last time that he wouldn't do it anymore, that he'd find the strength within to deal with his memories alone and leave her out of it, but still, he had ended up exactly where he began. He paused, hand frozen in a loose fist, almost ready to knock. Almost. He lowered his arm and stepped back, then turned and walked briskly down the hall, into the elevator, and left the building.  
  
She had heard his footsteps stop outside the door and held her breath, waiting. She knew that he was contemplating knocking, and was pleased when he didn't. But then she heard him retreat, and inexplicably regretful, wafted to the window to watch him depart. He crossed the street and unlocked his car, and as he climbed inside she found that she couldn't watch him drive away after all.   
  
~x~  
  
He paused in the hallway and thought of all the reasons why he shouldn't go inside. There were so many of them, each plausible and valid in their own way, and they roared through his mind in a chaotic frenzy. Then a single face appeared in the midst of the maelstrom, an anchor of reason and hope, and he clung to it as everything else faded.   
  
Once again, he'd found that all his promises and self-control counted for nothing against the need he felt for her and the rightness she exuded.   
  
She thought he'd left, but he'd only gone to retrieve something that he finally felt he deserved. He'd surprised them both last week, as he'd sat dripping a stain into her couch. He had beaten his fear and asked for that which he most desired. And against all the odds, she'd given.   
  
His hand trembled slightly as he raised his arm, aware that once he stepped through the door there would be no going back. Because this time he didn't need to knock. This time, he had a key.   
  
End 


End file.
